A Little Bit Wicked
by clockwork-faerie98
Summary: A villain known only as Steel Bullet and her team, the Renegades, are plauging America, and it's up to the Justice League to find and stop them. The catch? The Renegades are a team of kids. Steel Bullet herself is a girl named Rowan Martin, and she's only 13. Season 1 characters.
1. The Dominion Serum

**And the first chapter, for reals. Oh, I don't own Young Justice.**

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In the farthest corner of Star City, just bordering the harbor, is a run-down, abandoned department store. It doesn't look like much on the outside. In fact, I think there's a petition going around right now to get the place condemned. That'll never happen, of course.

If you go into the store, you'll find yourself in a tangle of aisles. Clothes will be strewn everywhere; rats will skitter across your shoes, unafraid, and the whole place will reek like a sewage treatment plant. Since you're probably a sane person, you'll turn around and get your butt out of there as fast as your legs can take you.

But for those of you who have weak minds and strong stomachs, if you walk just a little further, you'll find yourself in the women's clothing department. Walk all the way into the back, to the clearance section.

A box in the corner is filled with woman's bras, neon pink with red lace and sequins, size DD. Your eyes will probably sting just looking at them. But persevere, it gets better.

And if, shoving aside your fear, you stick your hand in the middle of the pile (the exact middle, mind you) you'll feel a long, smooth stick. Yep, that's right, it's a lever. Go ahead and yank on it, if you want. I don't mind.

Oh, but be sure to jump out of the way as soon as you do. Because if you don't, you're in for a nasty shock.

The floor will pivot away, taking the box with it. The gap will reveal a hole plummeting downwards. A slide, actually. And if you jump down that, well…you'll find yourself in The Lair.

How do I know all of this? Because I designed it.

Oh, I'm Rowan, by the way. Resident supervillain and meta-human extraordinaire. Lover of puppies, spaghetti, and fiendish plots.

Right, back to The Lair.

The Lair (aka the Super Secret Lair of Awesomeness, though we don't call it that anymore) is the HQ that my team and I hide out in.

We didn't build The Lair (we don't know who did), but we sure modified it. I designed most of it, and though I didn't get everything I wanted (yeah, I'm still waiting on the coffee fountain), I must admit, it's pretty epic.

It's got all the normal stuff, of course: bedrooms and bathrooms and kitchens, etc. And yet, it has so much more, too.

There's the Strategy Rooms: two rooms filled with to-scale models of Gotham, New York, D.C., Central, Star City, and Chicago. They're perfect for planning our next route of attack or staging epic action-figure battles.

There's the Vault, a massive chamber chock-full of random crap that my team and I swiped from various labs, heroes, rich people, and villains. We've got everything from killer robots (two, "borrowed" from Lexcorp) to microchips (don't know what they do, but they're shiny!) to weapons. Heck, we've even got a couple lumps of Kryptonite (yep, we're villains, and we're _damn_ good at it).

I live here, along with my team, the Renegades. There's only four of us, but when you live with a bunch of villains-in-training, sometimes the space can seem waaay too small.

First there's Charles. He's easily the best young computer geek in America, rivaling even the Boy Wonder himself. He's repeatedly hacked the files of the government, Lexcorp, the Justice League, and the pizza place to get us a free meat lover's special. Oh, and he's a chubby blonde nine-year-old who likes burritos _way_ too much.

Next is Gadget. He's sixteen, and an expert in weapons and technology. No one knows his real name, but then again, no one cares. He's tall, dark, and brooding, with a knife scar running from his hairline to his jaw. No one knows how he got that, either. But what he lacks in people skills, he makes up for in smarts—this guy can invent anything. I'm serious. If I left him in the middle of the woods with only a toothpick and a wad of chewed gum, I could come back a week later to find that he'd built me a shopping mall. Or a death ray, as it were.

Then there's Bree. She's tiny, with flawless cocoa-colored skin and rich brown hair. At the tender age of twelve, she's an artist—at forging, that is. When I found her, she was sitting pretty, making flawless counterfeits that she would use to appease the local gangs. Now, she works for me, making flawless counterfeits of other things: diamonds and microchips and passports and portraits. Walking into her room is like walking into the Louvre, but messier: you have to step over three Mona Lisas, twelve Hope Diamonds, five Dead Sea Scrolls, and eight Holy Grails just to get to her bed.

Of course, it's great having geniuses on the team (you can't reverse the earth's rotation with just a high school diploma, folks) but without firepower, we'd be going nowhere fast. So that's where I come in.

You see, I'm what some very smart and yet very misguided scientists might call a "human magnet". That's sort of true, I guess. So, what do I do? I control metal—bending and twisting it to my will. It's weird, I guess, and pretty uncommon, but oh-so-useful, especially in the modern world.

Everyone on the team can hold their own in a fight, some freakishly well (Bree's this tiny, 4-foot 10-inch thing; it's not natural that she can take out a hitman twice her size). We've all been training since we could walk, and have sparring sessions every other day to keep in shape. But, being the skinniest and least muscular as well as the team leader means that I feel the need to put more hours than that into my training. Which brings me to The Lair's gym, where I am now.

"_Huh!" _I let out a little grunt as the side of my foot collides with the red canvas of the punching bag. I follow it up by swinging my fist around, slamming it into the center of the bag in a brilliant right hook. If the bag were a man, it'd be on the floor right now, begging for mercy. As it was, it just swung on its chain harmlessly, as if it were taunting me.

I'm panting now, but I don't let myself stop—there's a _ping_ from the concrete wall in front of me, and I launch myself backwards into a somersault. On the wall behind me, the paintball that just whizzed over my head explodes in a shower of pink.

The paintball is a clever trick invented by Charles. Tiny paintball shooters are embedded in the concrete that's facing me and are programmed to go off at irregular intervals. Just another fun little gadget that we supervillains like to use for training.

Still panting, I pick myself up from my somersault and make my way to the wall, hitting the huge red button that will turn off the paintballs. There's a slight whirring noise as the system shuts down, and then all is quiet.

I make my way to a metal bench that's situated at the corner of the sparring mat, where I'd been practicing. I've set a towel and one of those stainless-steel waterbottles on it, and I extend my arm toward the waterbottle. I focus on the bottle, and I _pull_.

The metal cap pops off, and the waterbottle hovers its way over to me, its silver steel glinting in the harsh white light. Water sloshes all over me as I grab it, but I don't mind. I dump half the contents of the bottle over my head, rinsing off my sweat. The cool water feels amazing.

The water sticks little clumps of royal-blue hair to my head. I make a mental note to get it re-dyed: it's been about three months since I last colored it the eye-popping blue and my normal, brownish-blonde roots are starting to show through.

Exhausted, I stumble over to the bench and plop down into it. I glance up at the clock; the numbers read 3:30. I started at noon, so I've been in here…three and a half hours. Woah. No wonder I'm tired.

The door to the gym opens, and I leap up, startled. Gadget stands in the door frame, laughing at my jumpiness. I feel a hot blush, embarrassed.

Okay, I'll admit it. Even though Gadget is _way_ too old for me, and even though he's dark and brooding and probably doesn't know the meaning of the word "happy", he's still cute. Really cute. He's got this perfect, milk-white skin and chocolate-brown eyes and high cheekbones and glossy black hair that any girl would be jealous of. He's tall, too, and muscular from so many years of training. Even his big feet manage to look amazing. I'm the leader of our little team, but around him I feel hopelessly stupid and incompetent.

But I _do not_ have a crush on him. Not at all. Anyone who says otherwise had better have a fake name, passport, and a plane out of the country readily available, because I _will_ hunt them down. And I've got giant robots to do it.

Anyway, now that he's here, I'm painfully aware of the way my sweaty blue Winnie-the-Pooh T-shirt clings to my ruler-straight frame (yep, that's right—no curves. None) and looks so un-evil, the massive pimple that had sprung up overnight on my nose, and the way my face must be flushing.

I breathe deeply. _Be cool, Rowan. Be cool._

Gadget is wearing baggy blue jeans with rips all over them and a ripped grey hoodie, both stained with motor oil and other unidentified substances, yet he still manages to look great. He doesn't smile at all, just says, "You're needed in Strategy Room One."

I give a nod. "I'll be there in a minute." He turns and leaves without closing the door or saying goodbye, and I immediately wish I'd had some cute, flirty response that would have made him stay.

I sigh. "Stupid, Rowan, stupid," I mutter. Why can't I just be cool and flirty like some girls? When it comes to snappy villain comebacks, I'm the expert, but around cute guys, I'm hopeless.

I loop the towel around my shoulders, drying the sweat and water off of my skin and hair, and sigh. Guess I'd better get going.

The gym is right next to the strategy rooms, so I'm not forced to navigate my way through a hopeless tangle of halls and corridors designed to throw off intruders. Instead, I just walk out of the gym and slip through a metal door and into Strategy Room One.

A tiny, red VW Bug comes sailing at me as I enter, and I dodge to the side. The model car embeds itself into the metal door where my head was just a second ago.

Model cars, airplanes, tiny streetlamps, even model skyscrapers are sailing around the battle zone I just walked into. Charles is huddling behind an overturned table, guarding a stash of model cars that the projectile I just dodged probably came from. His blue eyes and small mouth are wide with excitement, giving his pudgy face a cartoonish look.

Gadget is chucking tiny model superheroes at the table, trying to get to Charles. They just ping off of it, one by one, as Charles laughs maniacally.

Bree isn't worrying about hiding. She saunters up to me, a skyscraper in her hands, grinning happily. Her rich brown eyes are wide in the perfect picture of innocence. Ha. Like I believe _that_.

"What's going on here?" I ask desperately.

Bree grins. "Charles insulted Gadget's mother," she says matter-of-factly. "Things kinda just went downhill from there."

I roll my eyes. _Boys_. Charles and Gadget are forever getting on each other's nerves. It doesn't help that they're two competing geniuses, both with egos the size of Texas.

I stick my two index fingers into my mouth, under my tongue, and blow sharply.

A shrill whistle echoes around the room and Charles freezes like he's just been caught in the middle of murder. Gadget chucks his last figurine of Superman and it hits Charles's cheek, making a Man-of-Steel-shaped welt that flares an ugly red.

Charles stands up, rubbing his cheek and coughing nervously. "Oh…um…Rowan," he says awkwardly.

I put my hands on my hips and grin wickedly. "Care to explain this, boys?"

"It was _his_ fault!" They both cry, each pointing at the other person.

I sigh, rolling my eyes and using my fingers to rub my temples. "As long as it gets cleaned up, I don't care _whose_ fault it was. Now, I believe I was summoned for something?"

Charles , eager for the distraction, nods and heads to the one intact model left in the room: a table filled with a to-scale model of Star City, our hometown. He picks up a plastic figure of King Kong that's laying in the middle of the downtown area and chucks it at Gadget without turning to aim. The gorilla nicks Gadget's forehead.

"_Hey, _that—" Gadget began, but Charles cut him off.

"Our drones recently picked up some…_interesting _activity in Star Labs," he says, pointing to the familiar round building. I nod—the drones he was talking about were the robot birds we pinched from…who was it again? The Penguin? Or maybe it was Lex Luthor…eh, that doesn't matter. Anyway, these birds are insanely lifelike, with real feathers and everything. Their eyes are little security cameras that feed right back to our HQ, so whenever they see anything, we know it. Mostly, it's boring crap that they pick up, but sometimes, we get good stuff. Want a shot of Green Arrow picking his nose? We can hook you up.

So, knowing Charles, I just nod. "Go on."

He smiles. "Star Labs has recently formulated a neurotoxin known as the Dominion Serum. It's made out of an incredibly rare plant that grows in South America, combined with cobra venom and some other nasty stuff. Plant it in someone's food or water, and when they eat it, you have complete control of them for up to forty-eight hours. Naturally, this toxin is illegal in all fifty states and most other countries, so it's all been kept very hush-hush."

I smile. That kind of crap could be invaluable to supervillains like us. So the question of acquiring it isn't so much an _if_ as a _when_.

"How do we get it?" I ask, absently tossing a Batman figurine from one hand to the other. I imagine the tiny figure screaming in fear and I smile. (Hey, don't judge, I'm a villain—the things I enjoy are different from the things you do.)

Charles sighs. "That's the problem. Even though that serum is top secret, breaking into Star Labs is gonna attract some major attention, and a spot on the Justice League's bad list is _not_ what we need."

I nod. As much as I hate to admit it, Charles is right. Have you ever heard the saying, "No publicity is bad publicity"? Well, for a supervillain, just the opposite rings true. _All _publicity is bad publicity. Especially for my team. There aren't a lot of supervillains who think this anymore—just look at how the news is full of reports of arrests, and you'll see what I mean. But the Renegades have worked hard to maintain our anonymity, even passing up some great jobs to keep it. And I'm not about to sacrifice that, no matter how tempting the gig is. Still, my heart falls a little when I realize that the Dominion Serum—that beautiful, beautiful toxin—will never be mine. And worse, I _know_ that if the serum's not in my hands, it's in the hands of some other villain, and eventually I'll probably be the one bowing to them.

Bree just smiles. "Then what if _we're _not the ones to steal it?"

Charles wrinkles his brow. "I'm not following you," he says.

"But _I_ am," I say, suddenly grinning. "Charles, remember those robots we nicked from Lexcorp? We could use those to steal the chemical. I'm sure we can program the robots to take it. Then, they'd think that Lexcorp did it."

Charles shakes his head sadly. "We'd have to control the robots from here. The Justice League could trace the radio signal back to HQ and nab us. We don't want that."

I gulp, knowing what needs to be said but not wanting to say it. "Then…I'd bring the remote control and break into Lexcorp. I'd hide in a closet or something and control from there. Then the signal would be coming from the building, right?"

Charles rubs his chin as if he's thinking, but his eyes are lit up in a way that means he's just heard a plan that would work.

"You know…that just might do it," he says, smiling deviously and rubbing his palms together.

I turn to Gadget. "Do you think you can have those robots in working condition, ASAP?"

He smiles. It looks strange on him; the smile twists his scar so that he looks positively wicked. Which, by the way, is a quality I love in a guy. "Of course," he says.

I grin wickedly. "Perfect," I whisper.

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**So...did you like it? I can't wait to hear! Please let me know what you thought!**


	2. Without a Hitch

**Woah-it's been forever since I've updated. I'm hoping you guys will like this. If you do, even a little, feel free to review! Nothing makes me happier.**

**Oh, and I don't own Young Justice.**

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A beautiful young woman strolls, carefree, along the streets of Star City. Her long, ebony hair tumbles down her back in ringlets, her skin is a flawless tan, her chocolate-brown eyes sparkle with wit and joy. She looked to be about twenty, with long legs and curves in all the right places. If it weren't for the ash-grey skirt and suit jacket she wears and the briefcase she carries, she could be a supermodel on her way to work. Heads turn as she passes, most views lingering on her long enough to catch a name inscribed on the I.D. tag pinned to her lapel: Tara Santiago.

You wouldn't guess that this post-college beauty is really a small, short, 14-year-old supervillain who doesn't really have much going for her in the way of looks. Well, that's just Bree's special brand of magic at work.

She had crafted me a custom-made mask and wig, complete with fake colored contacts. I am wearing more padding than actual flesh, with a fake bust, pads on my feet to make me taller, and a thick coat of spray tan. For once in my life, I have actual cleavage, and I am _loving_ it.

The young woman is not me. At all. And yet, I sort of love the attention I'm getting. It's kind of sad to know that, if I had been dressed as myself, I wouldn't have been given a second glance.

As I walk, I remind myself of my fake identity. Tara Santiago was a new intern at the division of Lexcorp in Star City. She'd just started, and although she'd attracted the attention of 99% of the male employees, she hadn't been around long enough to forge any _real_ connections. Which made her perfect.

In addition, the girl lived alone, with no pets. Her only living relatives were her parents, and they'd had a falling out only a couple of months ago (It's amazing what someone's Facebook profile will tell you).

Of course, the _real _Tara Santiago would not be showing up for work today. Ms. Santiago was currently hog-tied inside her closet. We'd used a powerful breed of chloroform, which meant that she won't wake for a couple of hours. Room service won't come to her apartment until around two in the afternoon, meaning she won't discover her stolen keys, purse, I.D., and clothes until anywhere from two-fifteen to three. It's not even nine now, which gives me plenty of time.

I take a deep breath as I arrive in front of the Lexcorp offices. The building is massive, its steel-and-glass structure soaring up into the atmosphere to pierce the clouds. No wonder they call it a "sky scraper".

I've got my remote-control system in the briefcase, and the robots stand at attention in an abandoned fairground on the other side of town. I'm wearing a Bluetooth in one of my ears, but it doesn't actually work, for two reasons: a.) My team didn't have time to steal one, and b.) what's the fun in that?

Instead, I casually reach up and tap one of my diamond-stud earrings (fake, of course), activating the earpiece concealed there. A fake crown on my back molar is already switched on and serving as a microphone.

There's static on the earpiece and I try not to wince or slap my hand to my ear. "Good, you're on," Charles' voice says.

"Yeah," I whisper. I have the Bluetooth in, so no one gives me odd looks. "I'm just in front of Lexcorp now." I try to keep my voice light and cheerful, attempting to sound every inch the intern I'm not.

"Good. Go into the building—you should see an old man at the front desk. His name is Adam. Tara says 'hello' to him every morning. Greet him and have him check you in."

I nod, even though Charles can't see me, and push my chin up and my shoulders back, trying to achieve at least some level of confidence. Then, I stride through the door and into the lobby.

It's pretty obvious, from the look of the lobby, that Lex Luthor is _not _short on cash. My heels click rhythmically on the smooth marble floor, and over on one wall sits a massive desk, made out of some expensive-looking wood. There's a little lounge, with expensive but comfortable chairs, a wine-red plush carpet, coffee tables made of steel and glass, and a huge stone fireplace with a real fire crackling in it—appropriate, since it's mid-December, though there's no snow on the ground.

Lex doesn't really seem one for holiday cheer, but festive garlands are strung on the walls, and a Christmas tree, sitting in the middle of the floor, is nearly scraping the ceiling. It's strung with ribbons, tinsel, and ornaments, and completed with a star on top. The decorations are piled on so heavily that they look as though they're choking the poor tree.

I stride confidently up to the desk, where Adam, a wizened old man, looks up.

"Ah…Miss Tara! How has your morning been?"

I flash my best Tara Santiago smile. "Fantastic, Adam, thank you. How is your day?" Charles picks up the sound through the microphone in my mouth, then changes it so it sounds like Tara's voice. By the time the sound reaches Adam's ears, it sounds exactly like Miss Santiago.

He smiles, and adjusts the lapels of his suit—is he trying to impress me? _Eeeww. _Maybe I'm glad I'm not as gorgeous as Tara, after all. "Quite good, actually. Are you here to check in to work?"

I nod, and he hands me a plastic access card with a picture of me—no, Tara—in the top left-hand corner. Even in this ID photo, the girl looks fantastic.

I take the card, smile one more time, and murmur, "Have a nice day, Adam."

"You too."

"That was great. Fantastic," Charles' voice says through my headpiece. "Okay, next you wanna take the elevator down to the basement. There should be a spare closet on your left, 'kay? Go in that and set up the RC."

"On it," I murmur, already stepping into the elevator. With floors of white marble and carved wooden handrails, it's almost nicer than the lobby. I punch in the floor number and the doors slide seamlessly shut. Jazz muzak begins echoing around the area, so boring that I almost ask Charles to hack into the system and put on some Radiohead. I don't need to, though. He's heard the music through my microphone and is one step ahead of me. The jazz is replaced by the sweet sounds of bubblegum, cookie-cutter pop—not my personal favorite, but better than the alternative.

Soon, the doors ding open, and I step out into a hallway that's significantly uglier than the lobby. Grey concrete floors and walls stretch as far as the eye can see, with harsh electric bulbs, evenly-spaced, illuminating the gloom. Sure enough, there's one white-washed door just to my left. It has—or rather, _had_—an electric lock, but Charles is nothing if not an expert hacker, and the metal was melting down the door, collecting in a little pool on the floor. The door was just slightly ajar.

I slipped into the closet and pull the lightbulb cord. The room's almost empty, except for a few shelves with cleaning supplies strewn around on them. I brush away the cobwebs and shudder (I _hate _spiders), then sit down on the cold floor and flip open my briefcase. Inside is the controller. It's small, red, and perfectly idiot-proof, with only four controls: an on/off switch, a big joystick that I'll use to control the robots, a smaller one to control their arms, and a large green button that controls their laser cannons.

"I'm in," I whisper. "What now?"

"Okay—the security cams are all off. Push the red button labeled "on" to turn on the remote."

I roll my eyes. "Thank you, Captain Obvious. I mean _what else?"_ Rolling my eyes, I push the on button. Charles is really a sweet kid, don't get me wrong, but he tends to place people in two categories: people who can program a computer to speak in twelve different languages, including Dog, and people who are stupid. This belief tends to affect how he talks to people, like he's doing with me now.

I can almost hear the robots whirring to life from their position in an abandoned warehouse halfway across town.

"Right," Charles mumbles. "Okay, push the joystick forward and hold it for about ten seconds. Then push it right, hold it for two seconds, and push it forward again."

I do as commanded, and Charles says, "Good. They're on the freeway now."

"FREEWAY!" I practically scream, shocked. "Charles, we don't want to attract _that_ much attention. Nothing attracts more attention than robots smushing cars, you _know _that."

Charles doesn't respond to that statement, just screams, "Push the joystick left! LEFT!"

I hastily do so. "What…" I started.

"They almost walked of the side of the road and into the ocean."

"Oh, is that all?" I ask, somewhat shaken from Charles' outburst. "I thought it was something important, like stepping on the Mayor. Though that _would_ solve a bunch of our problems…"

"Cut the sarcasm, Rowan," Charles cuts in. "Now…turn left."

I wrench the joystick left, but then Charles screams, "No! Not left! _Right! _Turn…too late. You just smushed the amusement park. I _liked_ that park, Rowan."

"_I_ smushed it!?" I cry indignantly, as loud as I could without giving myself away. "_You_ told me to turn left!"

"_HEY!_ Just because I'm not good with directions doesn't mean—"

"Go play with your computers, Charles," Gadget's voice cuts in. His voice is smooth and deep and makes me feel all bubbly inside.

_Concentrate, Rowan_, I think to myself. _Crushes can wait. The robots can't._

"Okay, Rowan, turn the robots right to make them go back the way they came. Then go straight for a full three minutes, and then turn left and you're at Star Labs."

I obey him, dutifully counting off the seconds that the robots will take to travel. They're incredibly fast and take much less time than your average car, but they still manage to seem excruciatingly slow.

Finally, Gadget says, "Good. Okay, fire the lasers to break through the wall. Three blasts should do it."

I press the green laser button three times in quick succession. I can't see the damage the robots are causing, but I can imagine the intense chaos taking place over at Star Labs. The thought gives me a bubbly happiness, the way most girls feel when their crush tells them that they look cute.

"Great," Gadget says. "Okay, so push the small arm joystick all the way out to center the robot's arm…good, good. Then, push the little red button that's on top of the joystick to grab the serum."

Easy enough. I follow the commands, and I can't help but smile as Gadget gives a whoop of joy on the other end of the line. "We got it! Okay, flip over the control and find the little black switch on the back. Flip the switch to put the robots in autopilot mode. They'll walk back to a preprogrammed location."

I flip the switch and say, "We're done here?"

"Yep," Gadget responds. "I'll let Charles come back on in case you need help getting out."

I smile to myself. "That won't be necessary."

I kick off my cream-colored heels and remove a single bobby pin that's holding part of my wig in place. Then, I boost myself onto the third platform of one of the shelves, tearing a long rip in my nicely tailored skirt in the process. Oh, well—I never really liked it, anyways.

There's an air vent exactly level with my eyes, and a slight breeze coming out of the vent tickles my cheeks. There's a grate over it, of course, but barriers haven't stopped me before and they're sure as hell not going to stop me now.

I take the bobby pin that's clutched in my hand and slide it, round end first, into one of the bolts—I wish I could just use my powers on them, but even in his basement, dear old Lexy is too smart to make his grates and bolts out of regular metal. It takes a little coaxing, but I manage to get the bolt to rotate a few degrees. From there, I can use my fingers to loosen the bolt until it clatters to the ground.

I repeat the process on the three other bolts, and pretty soon I'm staring at a gaping hole in the wall. I can see a pinprick of light from outside at the far end. The gap's pretty narrow, but I can probably manage to wiggle my way through, earthworm-style.

I have to press my arms to my sides and go in head-first. The tunnel's barely big enough for me, which makes me feel kinda fat—maybe it's all the padding I'm wearing. I think briefly about expanding the chamber with my powers, but know that it's probably embedded in cement and won't do me any good, anyways.

I squirm and rotate through the tunnel, until my head finally pops out into daylight like a cork from a champagne bottle. From there I'm only a couple inches above the ground and can clamber down.

"You OK?" I hear Charles' voice once again on the line.

"Yep, all good," I respond cheerfully. I use one hand to yank off my wig and shake my short, still blue, still very badly dyed hair free. I toss the black curls into the garbage can, a little depressed that I can't keep them, but I know that it's better to let them go to the dump to be incinerated than to leave them be.

"See you back at the lair in fifteen?" Charles asks expectantly.

I start to respond "yes", but think better of it and shake my head instead. "I've got something I have to do first."

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**Well, did you like it? Please keep in mind that my description in the beginning is NOT how Rowan actually looks. It's a disguise. Just wanna make that clear.**

**Please review, and thanks for reading!**


	3. Who Wants Popcorn?

**Well, I typed fast and here's Chapter 3.**

**Before I say anything else, let me just write: if you like this story, if you hate this story, if it makes you feel any emotion at all, _please_ review. Anonymous reviews are totally cool. Constructive critisicm is totally cool. But whether I continue this story or not is basically gonna be based on how many reviews I get, so if you want to see more of this story, let me know!**

**Okay cool.**

**Anywho, I do _not _own Young Justice.**

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I slip away from the crowds of downtown Star City, grinning to myself as I catch a glimpse of the remnants of Star Labs off in the distance but otherwise trying to act the part of a normal civilian.

I walk a full seven blocks away from Lexcorp before I dare to call a taxi. I don't want to—hiring a taxi leaves a trail that can be followed—but people are starting to give strange looks to the barefoot, blue-haired girl in ripped office clothes. Eventually I decide that I'm leaving a more obvious trail just walking down the street than I would in a taxi, so I call one and slip into the back seat.

"Where to?" the balding driver asks through his unlit cigarette.

"South End. Nine-four-five-eight, Madrona Drive."

He nods, pulling away from the curb. "Sure, sure. That'll be about thirty bucks. You can pay, right, kid?"

I reach in my coat pocket and pull out a small leather wallet. I open it, grinning as I see the picture of my team on the front cover, smiling proudly and gathered around the first bag of cash we ever stole. "You take credit?"

"Yep."

I hand him one of the fake credit cards in my wallet, marked under the name Ariel Bishop. He scans it in the reader and I make a mental note to "lose" it first chance I get.

I fold up the wallet, stick it back in my pocket, then settle into my seat, ready for the drive ahead.

About fifteen minutes later, the cab pulls up outside a tiny, white-washed house. It's charming in a conventional way, with a little white picket fence ringing the perimeter and rosebushes planted outside.

"This the place?" the driver asks.

I nod. "Could you do me a favor and wait here? I won't be gone long."

He groans heavily. "That'll cost you extra, missy."

I nod and hand him back the credit card. "I know. Take however much you want." It's not like _I _would end up footing the bill.

The driver's eyes light up—funny how greed can motivate people like that—as I grab the briefcase and step out of the cab, closing the door behind me. I unlatch the white gate and head up the gravel path to the front door of the house, where I ring the doorbell set into the wall.

After a couple second's wait, the door swings open, and I'm greeted by a little boy in rumpled Superman pajamas with messy brown hair and bright green eyes. Jackie's eyes light up when he sees me, his smile stretching into a huge grin and his freckled nose scrunching up adorably. "Rowan!" he cries, throwing his arms around me.

I laugh and bend down so I can sweep him into the air. "Hey, kiddo! How's life been?"

He grins and pulls back his upper lip to reveal a new gap between his teeth. "I lost a tooth!" he crows proudly.

I laugh. "That's great! Did the Tooth Fairy come?"

He nods and I smile. "Great…that's just…great. I'm really happy for you. Hey, is Mom here?"

He nods. "Yeah, but she's taking a nap. She says she has a mi—a mig—" His little nose wrinkles in confusion.

"A migraine?"

He nods. "Yeah. But she'll be up soon. You can come in if you want. We have cookies!" His eyes suddenly light up.

"Cookies sound amazing, kiddo."

He leads me into the kitchen and sits me down at the counter. The kitchen's different since I've last seen it; it's been painted a sunny yellow and retiled in a nice cream shade. There're new, light-colored cupboards, too, and patterned, pale yellow curtains.

I take the cookie jar down from atop the refrigerator, where it's always been. The cat-shaped jar still has its ear missing from when I dropped it when I was five, and I run my hand over the broken edge. It's so familiar that I smile in spite of myself.

Jackie takes out a quart of milk and pours it into two plastic cups with trains running around the bottom. I smile and sit down at the counter, grabbing a cookie from the jar and dunking it in the milk. Jackie does the same.

He's quiet for a little bit, then says, "Where've you been, Rowan? I missed you."

I sigh. "I know, Jackie. It's…it's complicated, hun."

His brow wrinkles. "Do you miss me?"

"Of course I miss you! Why are you asking such a silly question?" I sigh, then wrap my arms around him. This is the one part of being a supervillain that I can't stand: the part where I only get to see my family once a month, if that. "I love you, kiddo. Never forget that."

He nods. "I love you too, Rowan."

I sigh. "So, how's life been?" I ask, eager to change the topic. "Made any friends at school?"

He grins broadly, then proceeds to tell me about his best friend Michael's new Labrador retriever, and what happened when Michael snuck it into school (Apparently, Michael's parents owe the teacher $75 in dry cleaning bills).

Suddenly, Jackie falls silent. I'm about to ask him what's wrong when I hear a new voice from behind me. "Hello, Rowan."

I turn. The woman in the doorway is wearing a pretty flowered dress, though it's a bit rumpled and stained. It is obvious that she was once a gorgeous lady, but now her chocolate curls have streaks of grey running through them, her skin is sallow, and she's thin, almost haggard. Her blue eyes have lost the life that they once had and now there dull and filled with sadness. Still, the wrinkles around her mouth show that she's led a life of joy.

"Hey, Mom," I say.

She steps forward, throws her arms around me. "Rowan, where have you been? You haven't called in three weeks…I was so worried…"

I return the hug but shake off the questions. "Mom, I'm _fine_. I can take care of myself, you know that."

She nods, sits at the counter. "I know, honey. It's just…I worry." She says, cracking the tiniest of smiles. "I have a right; after all, I am your mother." She gently brushes the wisps of blue bangs behind my ear.

"Mum, Rowan let me have cookies!" Jackie cries, and I smile a bit sheepishly at Mom, who gives me a look.

She sighs. "Well, I suppose it is a special occasion. Rowan, will you be staying for dinner?"

I shake my head. "No, I've got to…I'm busy," I trail off lamely, looking guiltily down at my hands folded in my lap. My family doesn't know what I do for a living; they just think that I rent an apartment downtown. "I just stopped off to…well, to give you this."

I pull out of my coat pocket the paper bag that I'd been concealing for hours, hidden away even from my team. Mom opens it and peers inside, gasping at what she sees, just like I knew she would.

In the bag are stacks of bills: twenties, fifties, and one hundreds, all nice and organized, all gained from my various…exploitations.

Mom shakes her head in disbelief. "Where did you get all this?"

I cough awkwardly. "It doesn't matter. You need the money."

"Rowan, where did you…" her eyes widen and she gasps in realization. "Rowan, did you…did you _steal_ this money?"

I look away; I can't lie to her. "Oh, Rowan," she says disappointedly.

"Mom, I did it for _you_! For _Jackie_! You _need_ this money…" I lean in closer to hear and cup my hand around my mouth so Jackie can't hear. "Mom, you very well know that you can't afford Jackie's medicine on the money you earn at the grocery store. Jackie will _die_ without this money," I whisper fiercely.

I look at her for a couple seconds, pleading with my eyes. "Mom, please, please take it. I just…I just can't see that happen to this family. To…to _Jackie_." I shake my head. "I love you too much."

She turns away and I can see the confusion and disappointment written across her face. Finally, she turns back to me and sighs. "I'll only take it if you can look me in the eyes and tell me that you _didn't _steal to get it."

"Mom…"

"Look at me, Rowan!" she commands suddenly, a fierceness in her voice that I'd never heard before. "Tell me you didn't steal," she says, much softer.

I look at her. "I—I didn't steal." It takes all the willpower I can muster up to lie to her like that, with a straight face. But Jackie _needs_ this money. Hell, _she _needs this money. And I think some part of her, however small, knows that, and is willing to believe whatever I say, so long as she can take the cash.

She gives a small smile, and I can't tell if she believes me or not. "Good," she says. "Now, I know you said you're not staying for dinner, but at least let me fix you a little something. Jackie, would you like to show your sister some of your toys?"

His eyes light up and he leaps off the stool. "Yeah! Rowan, I got this new train set! It's got four engines, and…"

I allow myself to be pulled out of the kitchen, but not before glancing back at Mom. I give her a soft smile and she smiles back. For a couple seconds, at least, everything is as it should be.

For a couple seconds, I have a family again.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

I stay much, much later than planned. It's the most fun I've had in…well, in a long, long time. Not that my team isn't fun, but there's just something about being around your family that makes you want to smile and giggle and write poetry about bunnies and rainbows.

God, I am _so _losing it.

Jackie and I play with his trains and build a fort (The Castle of Awesomeness, we call it) and watch cartoons. Eventually, the taxi driver comes around to complain about how long I'm taking. I can tell Mom doesn't like him because she doesn't even offer him anything to drink, which is basically her equivalent of making him stand outside and yell through the cat door. Finally, we leave about seven. It's a bit of a tearful goodbye, knowing that I probably wouldn't see them again for a month or so, but hey…my team is waiting.

So after hugs all around, the taxi driver and I putter off into the evening.

I have him drop me off six blocks from my actual lair. Normally, this would be a very bad idea, but I don't want the driver to know where my actual lair is, and anyways, I'm a supervillain. If anyone can take care of themselves in the seedier areas of town, it's me. (It helped that I had a miniature laser gun concealed under my waistband.)

As soon as I set foot in the Lair, my team bombards me with shouts and (in Bree and Charles' cases) hugs. For a couple seconds, I'm completely overwhelmed with noise and motion, until I manage to break free from the throng and holler:

"EVERYBODY, _QUIET_!"

They fall silent, and for a couple seconds, it's quiet enough to hear a pin drop. I sigh in relief and rub my aching head. "_That's _better. Okay, guys, run that by me again_…one at a time_."

Charles goes first. "Where've you been, Rowan? We're on the news!"

My eyes widen in shock and horror. "_What?! _" I gasp, pure terror jolting through me.

Gadget rolls his eyes. "What dear Charles _means_ to say is that the gig we pulled at Star Labs today is on the news."

I sigh in relief. "So they don't know it's connected to us?

Bree grins. "Neither the name Steel Bullet _nor _the Renegades has ever been mentioned, not in any news broadcasts or Internet postings, anyways. I doubt the papers will be much different. Can I have some ice cream?"

"Sure, hon, there should be some in the freezer." She turns and skips down one of the side tunnels, the one leading to the kitchen. Or perhaps it's the one leading to the giant vat of acid—I can never tell those two apart.

"So, how big of a spectacle was it?" I ask.

Charles' eyes grow wide. "It was _awesome_!" he cries. "The Justice League was there and everything!"

I laugh. "Really?"

"Yeah," Gadget says, cracking a grin. It's the first smile I've seen on him in a _long_ time, and it makes him look sort of—gah! I do _not _care how amazing his smile is!

"We kicked their asses," he laughs. "_And _they still think Lexcorp did it. Wanna watch the news broadcast?"

I grin. "I would like nothing better. But _first _I want to see the serum."

Charles proudly withdraws a little glass vial, about three-quarters full, from his sweater pocket and holds it up for me to see. I take it, hold it up to the light, and examine the liquid inside. The swirling substance in the vial is a cornflower blue with a slight iridescent sheen to it and of a consistency just barely thicker than water.

"Have you tested it?" I hear myself ask.

Charles nods. "Not on any subjects yet. But when added to water, it vanishes—becomes odorless, colorless, and tasteless. And we've tested it with other substances too—it _completely_ mimics the properties of anything it touches. Even if it _didn't _brainwash people, that would be one very powerful serum."

I feel a little thrill of pleasure and break into a grin. "Amazing," I whisper, handing the vial back to Charles. "Fantastic." I give a little squeal of pleasure and throw my arms around the two boys standing in front of me. "We did it, guys! What do you say we celebrate? Let's turn on those news reports!" I allowed myself a tiny laugh. "Who wants popcorn?"

Looking back on that moment now, I can't believe I was gullible enough to think that we got off scot-free. That a group of barely-trained, teenage supervillains could go up against the almighty Justice League and win.

Yes, I was stupid and gullible, I'll admit it. And although life was good for one night, my gullibility ensured that it would _not_ last.

Because we were wrong. The Justice League _was_ catching onto us. And they were catching on _fast_.

* * *

**Well, did you like it? Did you hate it? It only takes a couple seconds to tell me and thereby make my day, so please, click the review button!**

**Also, if you have _anything_ you want to happen in this story, let me know! (hint: PMs are great for this!) I can't promise that it _will _happen, but trust me, I'll try to include it.**

**Okay cool thanks bye!**

**PS.: OK, I know that this chapter was a _tad _bit uneventful, but I felt I needed it for some all-imprtant character development. However, I can promise some Justice League action in the next chapter.**


	4. When in Danger, Or In Doubt

**Okay, guys, chappie 4! Hope you all like it. **

* * *

The Justice League was in a complete meltdown.

Or as meltdown-ed as it gets in the Justice League, which is to say that all the heroes were looking slightly more pissed off than normal and their protégés were gathered around Robin in the room outside, trying to hack the security system and discover what their mentors were saying.

The heroes of the Justice League were all in their massive meeting hall, gathered around a stainless steel table. The tension in the room was almost tangible.

Batman started the meeting. "As I'm sure you all know, Star Labs was broken into today."

Everyone nodded. The story had been running nonstop on the news: the indestructible fortress that was Star Labs has been smushed by two giant robots! Everyone, run for your lives!

Batman continued. "The attack was too sudden to send many of our members to defend. It's not yet been determined what was taken, but we have reasonable cause to believe that the Dominion Serum went missing."

There was a gasp from around the table. "Isn't that stuff illegal?" the Flash asked. "Why does Star Labs have some?"

Batman shook his head. "We don't know. Our best guess is that it was being manufactured for a private client. In any case, whoever took it now poses a threat, both to us and to the safety of civilians everywhere."

"Do we have any idea who took it?" Superman asked.

Green Arrow cut in. "The robots were both from Lexcorp, and we traced a remote control signal to their building. However…"

"However _what_?" Black Canary cut in.

"As of now, the civilian death toll is a big, fat zero. It was strange…I was there, and it was like the robots had been _programmed_ to walk around people, to keep any life form from getting crushed along with the rest of the place. Since when does Lexcorp care about people's lives?"

"Also," Batman cut in, "On the day Star Labs was robbed, a certain Lexcorp employee, Tara Santiago, showed up to work at her usual time, checked in with the front desk—then never showed up at her office. Three and a half hours later, the police received a call from Tara Santiago saying that she was knocked out and tied up in her own closet. Nothing had been taken from her apartment except a grey business skirt and jacket, a white blouse, a briefcase, a pair of heels, and an ID tag."

He looked around pointedly at the rest of the League. "We hacked into Lexcorp security cameras and found that they'd all been hacked into first. All except this one." He pushed a button on the desk and a screen slid smoothly up from the table.

The screen flickered to life and showed a view of one of the outside walls of Lexcorp. After a couple seconds, a grate near the bottom of the wall flew off its hinges, clattering away somewhere off camera. A head poked its way out of the hole. The figure's hair was dusty and her face was stained with dirt, but it was clear that the person was Tara Santiago.

She slid out of the duct and landed in a crouch by the edge of the wall. In one swift movement, she reached up and pulled her thick black curls off, shaking her head to let her own, royal blue locks fall free—even from the security camera footage, it was evident that they needed re-dying. With the wig off, the girl looked much younger—maybe in her early teens.

She stood up, barefooted, and tossed the wig into a nearby Dumpster. Her office suit perfectly matched the description of the one stolen from Tara's house, but it was ripped and stained. She tapped her ear once, and paused for a second, listening intently. Her lips moved quickly, then she turned and left. The footage cut out.

"So you think…Lexcorp might have been framed?"

Superman shrugged. "There's a first time for everything, I guess."

"Who the hell would _do _that?" Black Canary asked.

"We don't know—yet. But we do know that the girl's young, maybe in her early teens. We're running pictures from the footage against those of girls in Star City to see if we come up with any matches," Batman said calmly.

"You're suggesting a _child_ pulled off a full-fledged heist at Star Labs, framed it on Lexcorp, and got away with it?" the Flash asked incredulously.

"Stranger things have happened," the Batman shrugged. "For now, we're not ruling out any possibilities."

"I've already sent word to all the papers in town. They're printing notices for this blue-haired girl as we speak. The news stations are also on alert," the Green Arrow said confidently.

"So, that's it, then? We just sit around and wait for this girl to show up?" Black Canary didn't sound convinced about the genius of the plan.

"For now, yes." Batman looked around the table as if daring anyone to challenge him. No one said a word.

"Good," he said. "And now, there have been some reports of attempted murder in Metropolis…"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Lex Luthor kicked his feet up on his desk and tossed a three-thousand dollar crystal paperweight from hand to hand. His mind was a flurry of emotion, though his face remained unusually calm.

So, the kids had the Dominion Serum. The thought sent a sudden pang of rage through him, and in a fit of anger, he hurled the paperweight in his hand at the wall, where it smashed into a thousand crystalline shards.

So much for three thousand dollars.

He growled under his breath. Those. Damn. KIDS.

Okay, he had to admit, they had been smart about it. Framing it on him, Lex Luthor? That was a good move. Clever, even. Almost admirable—if that hadn't been his serum they'd stolen.

But he had paid good money for the Dominion Serum. He wanted that serum. And they had taken it from him.

They had messed with the wrong man. He would see to it that it didn't happen again.

He pressed the button on his intercom and radioed down to the main desk. "Get me the mercenaries. Yes, all of them. I'm getting the Dominion Serum back. Tonight."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

_When in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout._

Not the best advice, of course, but hell, at least it was easy to follow.

I ran in circles. I screamed. I shouted.

The Justice League was catching on. THE JUSTICE LEAGUE WAS CATCHING ON.

I was terrified.

The news had come at eight this morning. My team and I had passed out around midnight from sugar-induced comas after laughing 'till our sides hurt at the news broadcasts and gorging ourselves sick on cookie dough, popcorn, and ice cream.

It had been great. Then, I was woken up by Charles' panicked voice hollering, "Rowan, wake up! _WAKE UP!_ The Justice League knows!"

I sat bolt-upright. The news had brought me from a dead sleep to full consciousness in only half a second. "_What!?" _ I gasped in terror.

Charles helpfully peeled off a cookie-dough wrapper from where it was plastered to my cheek. "The Justice League _knows_," he repeated, scraping the rest of the dough from the wrapper and popping it his mouth.

Oh, crap.

Which brings me to where I am now: screaming and shouting. Or, actually, pacing the front hall, trying desperately to think of a way out of this.

Gadget stops me, putting his hands on my shoulders and forcing me to stand still. "Look at me. Rowan, _look_ at me. Stop freaking out. It's going to be okay."

"Okay!" I cry. "_Okay!? _Gadget, the Justice League _knows!_ God, I'm gonna go to jail! I _can't_ go to jail, Gadget, you know that!"

"Rowan, just breathe. The Justice League doesn't know that _we _did it. Not yet."

"They _have security footage_, Gadget. If they don't know it's us yet, they're gonna catch on damn quick." I run my hands through my hair. God, why the hell'd I have to dye my hair blue? I may as well have written my name and phone number on the back of my jacket and _danced_ in front of the security cameras. It certainly would have been less obvious.

He laughs. "You really don't get it, do you? Rowan, it's really not that hard to hack into the system and delete video footage."

"This isn't just any system. It's the _Justice League's system._ Hacking into _there_ is like breaking into flippin' Fort Knox with only a paper clip and a spool of thread!"

"From the outside, maybe. But from the inside…"

"Gadget, it's the Justice League. We're the scum of Star City. They're not exactly gonna invite us on a private tour," I say, shooting him my most scathing it's-a-good-thing-you're-cute-because-God-you-can-be-so-stupid-sometimes glare. "How the _hell _are we going to get close enough to the Justice League to hack their computers?"

He grins proudly and takes something from the back pocket of his jeans. "This came in the mail," he says, pulling out a thick envelope made of creamy white paper. The letter had been closed and held with a golden wax seal, but the seal's been peeled off and the envelope steamed open. I reach in and take the letter out.

"_Our _mail?" I ask incredulously, eyeing the designer stationary suspiciously. The last time I'd seen designer stationary like that was in a house I was robbing.

He shrugs. "Well, _no_. The mayor's mail, actually. I borrowed it."

I laugh and unfold the letter. Is it any wonder I love this kid?

The letter is thick and smooth, professionally printed in gold and red ink. Someone obviously cares a _whole lot _about appearances. I'll bet that this letter alone cost a good hundred bucks. I start scanning the text.

"_Dear Sir or Madam,_" it starts. Christ, someone's full of themselves, aren't they?

"_Dear Sir or Madam, we cordially invite you to join us for our holiday gala…"_

I have to stop. "Gadget, this is an invitation to a _Christmas_ party."

He grins. "_Bruce Wayne's _Christmas party."

I roll my eyes. "So _what_? A bunch of rich people in fancy clothes gossiping about everyone _else's_ fancy clothes does _not _keep us out of prison." Unless we can hold one of their miniature poodles captive until they agree to pay our bails…

It's his turn to roll his eyes. "Guess what world-famous institution in D.C. is letting Bruce Wayne host his party in their front hall?"

"Madame Tussads' Wax Museum?" I ask drily.

"Hilarious. No, genius, the Justice League."

I grin. Things are starting to add up, but… "Gadget, we're not invited. And knowing Bruce Wayne, I'll bet that he'll have bouncers at the door with photographs and _everything_."

He smiled. "You think _that's _a problem? Dude, I'll bet there are _tons _of spoiled rich brats who are too busy enriching the economy to show up at that party. All we have to do is find a couple, get Bree to disguise us, and we're good to go! Charles can even download a virus on a USB or something so that all we have to do is plug it in to the nearest computer or security camera or whatever and let it wreak havoc on its own time. We can be in and out of there in half an hour. It's _perfect_!"

He's right. Of course he's right. But still… "Dressing up's not really my thing."

He groans and rolls his eyes. "Oh, _come on_, Rowan. When's the last time you've been to a party?"

* * *

**So...yeah. A party in the Hall of Justice. I REALLY wanted to know what a party thrown there would be like, and now...well, I guess I get to find out. I figured, since the HoJ is basically a big tourist trap ANYWAYS...it couldn't hurt. Right?**

**Anywho, I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading, and PLEASE review. If you loved it, if you hated it...I don't care. Just SAY something!**


	5. The Con

**Okay, chapter 5! Hope you like it!**

**P.S.: I don't own Young Justice.**

* * *

Bruce Wayne at his massive desk in his massive office with a massive stack of papers scattered around while nursing a massive headache.

Was it any wonder he was in a bad mood?

His computer screen flickered dimly in the murky light streaming in through his half-shut curtains. More files were displayed on it, pages and pages of text that he had yet to sort through.

In the middle of the desk, on top of the mountain of papers, sat a single, full-page photograph.

Rowan Martin. The girl in the photograph was quite a bit younger than the one in the security footage and had dark brown hair cut short. The girl in the photograph was tanned, with startling green eyes, a round mouth, and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, but there was something off about her, too, like all her features had been put on her face in slightly the wrong places, by an artist who hadn't quite gotten his technique down. Not really ugly, no, just…strange. Still, she did bear _some_ resemblance to the nameless girl caught sneaking out of Lexcorp. What's more, she was the only girl in the city who had even a remote chance of pulling off such a heist.

Only problem was, Rowan Martin had disappeared two years previously.

And not disappeared as in simply _run away _or even _kidnapped_—Bruce Wayne could deal with something like that. He had connections that would make the President jealous. No, any and all traces of her, starting two years ago, had vanished. She wasn't attending a school. Her health insurance had been canceled. She wasn't renting an apartment, she didn't have a bank account, she hadn't been to a dental or medical exam in that whole period of time. She had fewer records than a dead person—at least a dead person would have an obituary or even a missing persons report. This girl had none of that.

She had, quite literally, vanished off the map.

He ground his teeth in frustration. He had to have missed something…

"Sir?" Alfred cautiously opened the door, interrupting his train of thought.

Bruce Wayne groaned in frustration. "What is it, Alfred?"

"It's about your Christmas party, Sir. The mayor of Star City phoned to say that he hadn't received an invitation. Naturally, I told him that his name was already on the guest list but that I'd send him a new one. I was just about to post it now. Seeing as though there's been trouble in Star City lately, I thought you should know, Sir."

He nodded without looking up. "Thank you, Alfred."

Alfred turned to leave, swinging the door shut as he went. In his study, Bruce Wayne tensed as his brain caught up with his ears.

The mayor of Star City lost his invitation to a Christmas party. Normally not a big deal; things got lost in the mail all the time. But the party was being held in the Hall of Justice—an overrated tourist trap, he knew, but a connection to the Justice League nonetheless. And the fact that the one person to lose an invitation just so _happened_ to live in the same city where a professional-level heist was pulled only a couple days before, a city where the only suspect, a _teenager_, lived…

"Rowan Martin," he whispered to himself. She wouldn't. Would she?

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

I nervously straighten the skirt of my glittering red dress, biting my lip. A bystander would see my fidgeting as innocent nerves, but that doesn't even come _close _to the truth.

Holy crap. In a few seconds, I'll be inside the Hall of Justice. Behind enemy lines, literally. It gives me a bit of comfort to know that Gadget will be coming with me—if not as my date, then at least as my backup. But still, it's scary to know that in a couple of seconds, the heroes will be the ones calling the shots.

I pull at the ends of my blonde wig, testing to make sure it's still on tightly. Bree outdid herself tonight, and instead of being a scrawny young supervillain, I've morphed into Lara Summers, cookie-cutter surfer girl and daughter of William Summers, internet billionaire. It wasn't easy for Bree—my skin's been really pale ever since I decided that the sun could kiss my ass, and she spent hours achieving a "flawless tan" in exactly the same shade as Lara. She'd also "acquired" a designer red dress identical to one that Lara had just bought—how she got her hands on it, I've no idea (when it comes to things like that, I've learned not to ask). I'm decked out in more paint than the Mona Lisa, but on the other hand, I look exactly like Lara, retainer and all.

Bree really is a master of her craft.

She refused to come with me tonight (as did Charles—they both like the Justice League even less than I do, and I love them like a housecat loves swimming lessons), but she did consent to morphing Gadget into Edwin Jones, the son of a British diplomat. He still had the same dark hair and pale skin, but Bree had changed everything else so that I hardly recognized him, even going so far as to erase his trademark scar.

The real Lara and Edwin had never met in their lives. They don't know each other, meaning that, for tonight at least, Gadget and I can't know each other, either. Still, it's nice to know that he'll be here to back me up.

Swarms of people pass me, eager to get in from the cold and into the glowing warmth of the Hall of Justice—after all, snow is already swirling down from the cloudy December sky. Still, I pause, reaching down into my purse and taking out a tube of bright red lipstick.

The label on the tube says "Drop Dead Gorgeous." This is largely because Bree and Charles have incredibly warped and twisted senses of humor.

I smear the fire-engine red paint on my lips, avoiding licking them after as is my habit. I've taken enough of the antidote to know that the lipstick probably shouldn't hurt me, but it doesn't hurt to be careful. It wouldn't do me any good to pass out on the front steps of the Justice League after accidentally eating a bit of my own poison.

Then I headed up the stairs and into the Hall of Justice, i.e., behind enemy lines.

I have no trouble at all getting past the bouncers that Bruce Wayne had set in front of the building. They are bored and cold and hungry and can't wait to get their job over so they could test out the bar set up over in the corner. A quick glance to insure that I at least somewhat partially resemble what Lara Williams looked like a couple years ago is all that is needed to convince them.

The metal detectors, however, are another story.

Leave it to the Justice League to set hulking arcs of security in front of each entrance. To my credit, I don't bat an eye when the security guard asks me to put my bag down on the conveyer belt and step through the metal detector, even though I know I have a small army's worth of concealed weapons on my person. I do this because I know that these are very sensitive metal detectors and, in contrast, the security guard is an underpaid, undereducated high school dropout (I know; I checked).

So when the shrill buzzing of the metal detector sounds throughout the party and several heads swivel in my direction, I just pull back my upper lip and pop out my retainer (It's lucky that I keep one lying around; you never know when a retainer will come in handy).

"Maybe it went off 'cause of this?" I say in my best sugar-and-spice-and-everything-nice Lara Williams voice. I bat my fake eyelashes, too.

The bored security guard nods. "Yeah, that'll do it. Sorry about that, miss. Here's your bag back."

He hands me the little white purse I came in with and I put the retainer back in. I give him a scathing look, but he's already turned away to harass the next guest.

Oh, well. No matter. I'm in.

The party is everything you'd expect an uppercrust gala to be—and more. The hall is ringed with the statues of heroes seen on the front page every newspaper this side of the Atlantic (and on the other side, too). Tonight, though, the statues are festooned in red and gold ribbons. A massive Christmas tree absolutely dripping with tinsel and lights dominates the center of the hall. In one corner, the bartender pours Christmas-themed cocktails with little Santa hats on the toothpicks in place of olives, and there's a real orchestra in the other, but they're resting now, and instead a remix of "White Christmas" is playing over the speakers. The guests, though theoretically different people, all look like copies of the same man and women, especially since they're all wearing the same shades of red and green.

All this holiday cheer is enough to make me sick.

I wander through the crowd, trying my best to avoid anyone who might recognize Lara (which, at this point, is everyone), and biding my time until I can find a side hallway where one might access the Justice League's computer system.

I manage to avoid much attention, casting an awkward grin at anyone who appears to recognize me and then slipping away before I can find out if they do. I keep an eye on all the hallway entrances, but there's always someone standing near them, someone to ask what I'm doing.

But pretty soon hours have gone by, and I'm running out of time.

The music's getting a little faster, the guests a little drunker. I start to get tired of wandering around the ballroom, watching the couples dance, bored to tears but unwilling to leave. I'm growing to hate Christmas carols, to despise poinsettias and Christmas trees and the colors red and green.

Christ, I'm turning into the flippin' Grinch.

I pause for a second by a statue of Martian Manhunter, bored and beyond exhausted. This is my first mistake.

As I'm standing, sipping from a crystal flute of all-too-sweet punch, there is a tap on my shoulder.

I stiffen. The person can't possibly be Gadget; I can see him standing across the hall, chatting up a pretty redhead a couple years older than me (which sends a pang of jealousy through me, but that's not important right now). So who is it?

"Lara!" the person behind me says. Male. Young—maybe early teens? So about my age. Oh, lord, I hope he's not Lara's boyfriend.

I turn. The boy _is _about my age. Thin, athletic, but there are obvious muscles under that black suit of his. Handsome, with raven hair and eyes like the sea after a storm.

God, I've got to stop thinking so poetically.

The boy looks familiar, and I know I've seen him somewhere. He smiles, and he becomes even a little more familiar. But I still can't quite place it…

He notices my confusion, and his smile becomes a little smaller. "I'm Dick? Dick Grayson? You know…we met at your sister's wedding last year?"

Dick Grayson…Dick Grayson…Dick…

_Oh_.

I've already started to say, "_I've never seen you before in my life; back off, you freak."_ But I catch myself just in time.

"I've never…had a very good memory for things like that. I'm sorry," I say, giving a small smile.

He looks a little hurt, but shrugs it off. "No problem. Hey, I thought you were staying home for your grandma's funeral?"

_Crap_. Maybe I should have done a _little _more digging before I took on the guise of Lara Summers. "Oh…um…it was rescheduled for a little later. You know, so some of the other relatives could make it. I decided to come to the party and…take my mind off of things," I lie smoothly.

"Yeah, I understand. It was terrible how she died."

"Yeah," I say, feeling a little more confident. "Cancer really is a horrible way to go."

"I thought she died in a car crash?"

I wince. "That, too."

I glance over to the hallway I'd been monitoring. It's clear; now's my chance. I just have to think up a good excuse and slip away for a couple minutes.

I pretend to glance at the clock on the wall, then turn back to Dick and smile apologetically. "It's getting late," I say. "My plane's leaving early tomorrow morning, so I'd better go. But it was really nice talking to you. Maybe I'll see you again sometime?"

He grins. "Yeah, I hope so."

I watch until he walks away, then kick off my heels and dash down the empty hall.

About a hundred meters in, there's a computer station, probably a monitor for the Justice League's main transport system: zeta tubes. It doesn't really matter: a computer's a computer.

This particular computer looks wickedly important, with wires and screens and buttons sticking out all over the place. Still, Charles explained to me exactly how to work it, so I don't panic.

The computer's already on, the monitor glowing, so I slide my right hand down the smooth plastic until I find the USB port on the side. With the other hand, I dig in my bag until I find the tiny USB that contains the virus that Charles preprogrammed on it.

I push the USB into the port. On the touchscreen, a message pops up.

**EXTERNAL HARDRIVE DETECTED. DOWNLOAD CONTENTS NOW?**

**YES NO**

I tap the "yes," but not before grabbing a spare tissue from my purse and wrapping it around my forefinger—it wouldn't do to smear fingerprints all over the Justice League's computers, now would it?

A little bar appears, slowly filling up green. A message to the side informs me that it's downloading. Once the bar is full, even before that, the virus that Charles designed will start eating holes through the Justice League's video and picture files, one at a time. And since the virus came from a standard USB and not a computer, it'll be virtually untraceable.

I grin at the glowing green bar. "Put your hands up," says a voice behind me.

I turn, startled. The boy behind me is tall and incredibly musicular, in late teens or early twenties. He has spiked, gingerish hair and hard, angry eyes, so narrowed that I can't tell their color. He, like Dick Grayson, looks oddly familiar, and I know I've seen him somewhere. He's wearing a nice suit but is pointing a crossbow at me.

I smirk. "Oh, but that would be no fun," I pout. I note that the crossbow has a thin metal string; the arrow has a metal shaft. Perfect.

With just a twitch of my pinky, the arrow slips slowly off the taught crossbow string, slides forward, and hangs in midair for a moment before slowly slinking to the ground. Before the boy can register what's happened, the crossbow's string detaches itself and snakes around his wrists, lightning-quick. He gives a hiss of pain as it cinches tight.

I smile to see the shock in his eyes. "There, now," I whisper. "Isn't this just so much more interesting?"

Before he can react to being tied up, I lunge forward, grabbing his face in my hands. He struggles a bit, but then I pull him towards me, pushing my lips against his. I feel his body go stiff in shock, which is somewhat insulting—I can't be _that _bad of a kisser. But I don't let him go until I know the poison starts to take its hold and he starts to weaken.

I let go and smile sweetly at him. His face contorts into a grimace and he stumbles, falling against the back wall. "Poison," he gasps out, his eyes widening in understanding.

I grin wickedly. "Yes, darling. Poison. In the lipstick. Oh, don't look at me like that. It's not a _lot_ of poison. I could never live with myself knowing that I'd killed someone with a face as pretty as yours." I kneel beside him. "Though, I must admit, you _are _going to have a rather nasty headache when you wake up. I'm truly sorry about that, but know that it couldn't be helped."

"Wh—who are you?" he gasps out, slumping to the floor. "You won't get away with this!"

I smile, bend down to him. "Oh, but sweetheart: I already _have_. " I smile. "Sweet dreams," I whisper softly in his ear as his eyelids flutter shut.

Over on the other wall, the monitor beeps to say that it's done downloading. Perfect. I snatch the USB from the port and stuff it in my bag. Before dashing back to the main hall, I spare one last glance at the boy slumped on the ground.

I sigh. "It's not so bad, sweetheart," I say to the boy's unconscious form. "At least you're a good kisser." Then I turn and run for it all the way back to the main hall.

The party's winding down, but I can still see Gadget on the far end of the wall, still hitting on the same group of girls. A jolt of anger flares through me. I know he's just playing a part, but still. Does he have to flirt with every flippin' girl at this party?

I grind my teeth and march over to them. None turn towards me, so I grab Gadget's tie and yank his head around so that we're eye-to-eye, not caring if I break his neck or not. The girls gasp in indignation. I don't really give a rip.

"You look familiar. Have we met?" I say sweetly, using the codewords that Gadget and I agreed upon earlier.

He grins, knowing that I've completed the job. "I don't think we have. I'd remember someone like you."

I smile, deciding to put on a little show for the girls. I'm still wearing some of the poisonous lipstick, and though he deserves a taste of it for flirting, I pull his head towards mine and kiss him on the cheek instead, right by the corner of his mouth. His skin is rough and warm, and I can taste the chocolate he had earlier. "Are you sure about that?" I whisper, so only he can hear.

He laughs. "Care for a dance, miss?"

I smile, shoot a grin at the semi-circle of girls who had been gathered around Gadget. If looks could kill, I'd be a little grease stain on the front of a semi shooting down the interstate.

"Oh, I'd love to, but it's getting so late, and I have a plane to catch tomorrow," I say, fingering his green silk tie.

"In that case, how about I walk you back to your hotel room?" he says, his eyes twinkling. He knows that he's tormenting that group of girls, and he likes it.

"Such a gentleman," I say, widening my eyes a bit in feigned shock.

He grins and takes my arm. "Always," he says. Together, we walk away from the scathing glares of the Barbie dolls, my heels in my hand, a smear of chocolate on his face. We leave the glowing hallway and sounds of the orchestra behind as we head out the glass doors and into the dark, snowy night.

We leave together, knowing that we've just conned the almighty Justice League.

* * *

**Hi guys! I really hope you've liked it. Also, please (please) review. It's really lonely over here, with so few reviews...**

**Thanks!**


	6. A White Christmas

**Next chapter! I hope you all enjoy it!**

* * *

The call came at four in the morning.

That in itself would be bad enough—no one ever calls at 4 a.m. to report _good_ news—but it was made ten times worse by the fact that the call came over my cell.

I'm unnaturally protective of my cell phone (The one time that Charles swiped it to order pizza, I dumped a full gallon of rootbeer on his head), but I have a good reason to be. My cell is my "emergency-only" phone. Only four people in the world have that number and they've been instructed to only ever call if it is a _complete_ emergency, i.e., the Lair was burning down or they decided to bring back _Jersey Shore_.

Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit about _Jersey Shore_.

Anyway, the phone blasts its cheery rendition of "Hakunah Matata" and I sit bolt upright in bed, grab the cell, flip it open, and try to control my panic.

"Rowan, it's about Jackie," says the voice on the other end of the line. "He's…oh, my God, Rowan, he's gotten so much worse. I've been giving him his medicine and everything, but…"

"Woah! Slow down," I command. "Where are you?"

"The hospital," Mom sobs. "You know, the big one downtown. Rowan, I'm afraid… I don't think…"

Hopital. Oh crap, _hospital. _Hospitals are not good, not good at all.

"It's gonna be okay, Mom," I say. "I'm gonna be there in half an hour. Can you hold on until then?"

On the other end of the line, Mom takes a shuddering, teary breath, which I take to mean as "yes."

"Okay. Don't worry, Mom, I'm coming." It's hard for me to tell her not to worry when I can barely control my own panic.

I flip the phone shut and fumble my way to the light switch on the wall. In a panic, I toss on a sweatshirt and a pair of beaten-up Converse, not bothering to change out of the Hello Kitty pajama bottoms and T-shirt I'd been wearing. Jackie couldn't wait for that.

I grab a wad of cash for cab fare and dash upstairs. I just manage to glimpse my reflection in the sliding metal doors of the elevator before jumping in. I look terrible. Gadget and I got back from DC late last night, and I still haven't washed my makeup off, so it's smudged. My hair's messy and there are bags under my eyes from lack of sleep.

I look like a zombie.

The elevator dings and I squeeze through the doors, not waiting for them to open the whole way before I'm through and dashing through the department store like a maniac.

Jackie's hurt, sick. He could be…Oh, God, he could be…

He could be _dying_.

_No._ I force the thought out of my head. I can't think like that. He _can't _be dying. He's gonna be alright.

Right?

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

In a little white house in the South end of Star City, a sobbing woman gives a little shudder and hangs up her phone. Unable to bear it, she covers her face with her hands and sinks to the ground, moaning softly.

The man behind her is more wall than person. She knows—she tried to hit him when he first came in. It didn't work.

He lets go of the little boy in his grip, who dashes out of his clutches and into his mother's arms.

She kisses his messy brown hair and wraps her arms around his frail shoulders. "Jackie…baby…" she whispers softly.

"Mama…what…what did you tell Rowan?" he murmurs, pressing his head into her stomach.

At this, the woman's sobs begin anew. The muscled wall of a man, who had been silent up until then, gives a little chuckle at her tears. "On behalf of Lex Luthor, I'd like to thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Martin," he says with a voice like rocks being rubbed together. "And remember, if you ever tell anyone what happened here tonight, well…I can see to it that you'll never see your precious children again. Understand?"

She nods silently and pulls Jackie a little closer to her as the muscled man turns on his heel and stomps out of the dark house and into the waiting car.

On his way out, he puts out his hand and knocks one of Mrs. Martin's vases to the ground, just because he wants to.

He smiles as he hears the vase shatter behind him. He smiles even wider as he hears Mrs. Martin's forlorn wail a couple second later.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

I shove a couple bills into the cabbie's face, not even waiting until he stops before I swing open the car door and dive out.

The hospital is mostly empty at this time of night, which is a good thing, considering I'm about to make a fool of myself.

I sprint through the automatic doors and into the main reception room. There's only a couple lights on, and at the front desk, a bored, overweight receptionist sits reading the kind of romance novel unfit for publication and chomping obnoxiously on a wad of gum.

I slam my hands down on the desk, startling the woman out of her daze. "I'm here to see someone!" I practically shout, disturbing the group of clownfish in the little fish tank over by the wall.

She doesn't respond right away, just gives me a critical eye. Okay, I know I don't look _fantastic_, but really, now is _not _the time for this!

"I'm gonna need a name," she says in a monotone before blowing a massive gum bubble that explodes in my face.

"Jackie…no, Jack…Jack Martin. He just came in, he'd probably be in the emergency room…"

She enters the name into an ancient desktop computer. "What was he hospitalized for?"

I don't understand. "What do you…?"

She gives me a look. "Honey, I haven't got all night. What was wrong with him? Brain, heart, bones, lungs…"

"Heart," I say. "It's his heart."

She nods. "_Thank_ you!" she says sarcastically, entering the name into the computer. She stares at the screen for a couple seconds, then says, "There's no one by that name here."

I shake my head in disbelief. "That's not possible," I say. "I _know _Jackie's here. Let me see him!" My voice slowly rises so that by the end of that sentence, I'm practically screaming at her."

"Honey, do you _want _me to call security? There is _no one_ named Jack Martin here. No one at all."

I _could _manipulate the metal in the mouse's wire and have it attack her. I _could_ take that hat rack over by the door and slam her with it. I _could_ force into the emergency room in any of a hundred different ways. I don't know why I don't. But I just say, "Let me see that."

She tilts the screen towards me and hands me the keyboard. She wasn't lying; there really isn't anyone named Jack Martin at this hospital.

I type his name again. Nothing. I try writing Jackie instead of Jack. Nope. I try every one of twenty or so aliases that Mom might use in an emergency.

Nope, nada, zilch.

I shake my head. "That's not…" I start, but catch the withering glare the lady is giving me. "I mean…I'm sorry. I must have made a mistake."

I sigh, then turn and walk back out into the cold of the night.

.-.-.-.-.

I try every freaking hospital in Star City.

I spend hours wandering all around the city, taking taxis and buses and tromping around the streets until I finally decide to give up. Jackie's not in any of the hospitals. None.

Finally, around eight in the morning, I admit defeat. I call a taxi and instruct him to drive me back to the Lair (or actually, six blocks from it).

Downtown Star City is absolutely brimming with Christmas cheer—fitting, since it's December 24th. It won't be a white Christmas, it never is in Central, but people are faking it rather well. Some of the smaller parks and traffic circles even have fake snow laid down.

I sigh. My team will be so excited for Christmas. Jackie will be so excited…

My stomach twists in worry. _Jackie_. I know the fact that he's not at a hospital should comfort me, but it only makes the fear worse. Mom wouldn't call me, not unless it was an emergency. So if Jackie's not in a hospital, then where…?

"Here's your stop, miss," the cabbie says, pulling up on a cracked section of sidewalk near a boarded-up deli.

"Oh…right…" I hand him my last couple of bills. Hopefully it'll be enough. I slip out of the cab and walk away while he's counting so I don't have to find out.

The air is chilly, even for Star City, and the fact that I'm still in my pajamas only makes it worse. My eyes start to sting, and I rub at them absently with the back of my hand, staring down at my shoes as I go.

I try to settle my pounding heart, but I'm just so worried. About Jackie. About the Dominion Serum fiasco. About my team. About everything.

Something drips from my eye. I wipe at it and am surprised to find that it's _water_. A tear.

Okay, I was crying, I'll admit it. But if you tell anyone, just know that it'll be the last thing you ever do.

I sniffed to try and stop the tears. Just a little sniff, but it was enough to stop me in my tracks. There was something in the air, something almost like…

_Smoke._ I look up. There, above the rooftops, is a billowing black cloud of smoky haze. I can't see the source from right here, but I have a pretty good guess as to what it is.

The Lair is burning down.

A cry escapes my lips. _No_.

I sprint the last five blocks, all the way to the little department store, hoping desperately that my team's all right, hoping that we can salvage something from the ruins of our home.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_. It was stupid of me to allow us to stay in the Lair for so long. Almost a year…when you live anywhere, no matter how secret, for so long, someone's bound to catch on. When you're like us, when you're hiding, someone's bound to catch _up_.

I was right. About a hundred yards out, I can see the flames pouring through the broken windows, smell the dirty smoke, hear the screams from people around, feel the heat on my face. My heart's pounding in my chest as I do a quick scan of the premises, but Bree, Charles, and Gadget are nowhere to be found.

_They're not here._ "_NO!_" I scream. I'm running now, running towards the flames against all common sense, against my better judgement. Tears are streaming down my face in rivulets, marking this as the first time I've cried—really cried—in a good three years. "Please!" I scream. "Bree…Charles…Gadget…_PLEASE! _Say something! _Answer me_!" I scream. All I get is the crackle of the fire. As if for the first time, the heat of the flames hit me full on, and I'm forced to stop or be burned to a crisp. Now that I think about it, burnt to a crisp might be the better option of the two.

I sink to the ground, pound the pavement with my fists. They can't...they can't be...dead. Just gone. Guilt, fear, grief...God, it feels like someone dug out my heart with a bendy straw. Sirens wail off in the distance, but here there's a deafening silence. White ash rains from the sky like snow, coating my hair, the pavement, _everything_ in a blanket of soft white.

"_A white Christmas,"_ I think sarcastically.

I give a soft moan. _Gone_. My team…my home…_everything_. Just…gone.

"Rowan Martin?" says a voice behind me. I don't turn. I don't speak. I don't care.

"We've been looking for you," the voice says. Oh, great. I know who these clowns are.

"She doesn't _look_ like a supervillain," another one says, a girl this time. Yep, I was right. The Justice League's little pep squad.

"You're…under arrest," the first voice says uncertainly. I should fight. I should _do something_. A real supervillain would. But I can't. I'm numb.

"Aren't you going to do anything?" another voice asks.

"Do you want me to?" I whisper, still curled in a ball, still shaking uncontrollably.

"_What?"_

A sudden rage fills me. How _dare _they come here? My team has just _died_! Dead! GONE! And they come here and…I grind my teeth. "Did I not make myself clear?" I say softly, my voice like ice. "I said, _do you want me to_? Do you _want_ snappy comebacks? Do you _want_ a fight scene? Because if you do, I can give you that."

I whirl around to face seven very startled young heroes, my eyes ablaze. "I thought you were _heroes_," I whisper in rage. "I thought you _put out _the fires. I never thought you'd start one."

"We didn't…" one begins, but I don't pause to listen. Of course they did. Of course this fire is their fault.

"_Don't _call yourselves heroes!" I scream. "You're every _inch_ as wicked as the people you fight!"

I lunge at the nearest one—Robin, I think. He dodges nimbly out of the way. Unfortunately for him, he also pulls out one of his little boomerang things and hurls it at me. With a flick of my wrist, I send it spiraling back in his direction.

There's a hiss as a wave of water sent from Aqualad sails over me, hitting the fire instead. I've already rolled under it. I can see a faint blur that means the speedster is coming this way, so I use my momentum to sweep my legs around and into his path. He gives a cry as his toe catches on my shin and his legs are swept out from under him.

There's a grunt over near my side: Superboy has picked up a huge metal dumpster and is about to throw it at me. Unfortunately for him, the Dumpster is metal, so, though it takes a bit off effort, I manage to lift it out of his grasp by a few inches, then send it hurling away towards the rest of his team.

"Wait!" a voice cries. "Rowan, stop!" It's a girl's voice. I _know_ that voice. Bree.

I turn. There she is. She's coated in ash, her hair colored a chalky grey, but other than that, he's unharmed.

"Bree," I sob. "Bree, you've got to run. Get out of here. Gadget and Charles…they're…" my voice hitches in my throat and I let out a little sob.

For some reason, I don't notice that the sidekicks have stopped attacking me. I don't turn and check. I'm just so relieved that someone form my team is _alive_ that I don't care what the heroes'll do to me once they've picked themselves up off the ground.

"I know," Bree says. "I know, Rowan, but…you need to stop. You can't hurt these people."

I wrinkle my brow in confusion. "Bree, it's _their _fault! _They _started this fire, _they _killed our team…"

Her brow wrinkles. "Rowan…" she starts. Then her cocoa-colored skin changes to a bright shade of green, her curly brown hair grows out into orange-ish locks. "I can't believe you fell for that," Miss Martian smirks.

I can hear the air behind me whistling as something collides with the back of my neck. Pain shoots through my head, and my vision starts to fade to black.

The last thing I see before passing out is ash falling from the sky like snowflakes.

A white Christmas.

* * *

**Well, what did you think? Did you like it? Let me know with a review! Please, please, please review!**

**Anyway, I thought a somewhat-Christmas themed chapter or two would be cool, 'cuz Cristmas is in like...a month or so? And what's more Christmas-y than snow?**

**Or well, not snow, in this case. You know what I mean.**

**Anyway, I guess this is a pretty sad chapter. Sadder than they've been, at any rate. Sorry about that. I swear it'll get better!**

**Oh, and I know what the team does is a little...mean. Or it seemed that way when I was writing it. But I figured that I'm writing this from the perspective of the villain. Nothing the Team did would seem nice to her. So I went ahead and played up the meanness a little.**

**Thanks!**


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